


Under the Same Sky

by 2davidbeckham3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: (The last two characters are cameos but I thought it'd be cool to tag them), Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Ghosts, Implied Relationships, Multi, Pre-Slash, The pairings aren't the focus believe me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 06:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15042410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/2davidbeckham3
Summary: The museum visit had been a long time coming, but it was hard for Marc to come to terms with the fact that he might be seeing dead people.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the 2014-2015 season.
> 
>  
> 
> _Slightly too angsty fanmix in the second chapter!_
> 
>  
> 
> \- I used the [photo prompt](https://78.media.tumblr.com/22e17db6d8e9de71ccb96450c5ee7a47/tumblr_inline_p9m6g44mLN1t5wn43_500.png) for inspiration. I've been rewatching Bleach, so I guess that's why the whole "spirits sharing the physical plane" has been on my mind.  
> \- The title comes from this quote by Konrad Adenauer, "We all live under the same sky, but we don't all have the same horizon."

Photo-ops really shouldn’t be as exhausting as they are, Marc muses. He hangs his keys on the hook by the door after locking it, before walking to the living room. Finally, he has a moment to himself. He throws himself onto the sofa with a groan. He spends a few minutes splayed across the couch, listening to the faint sounds of the cars passing by.

 

After a day filled with PR events, it shouldn’t be surprising that an empty house could feel off, that an empty house in a new city felt quiet. Lonely.

 

Furrowing his brows and braking his relaxed posture, Marc takes his phone out of his pocket, postponing his deserved moment of solitude for a few moments. It’s a good thing that he did, the red bubbles listing his notifications looked more like basketball scores instead of texts and emails.

 

There’s a message from Marco asking him for Netflix recommendations and another message from Toni, ribbing him for being on arrival team. Nothing too new. They’re easy enough to respond to, Marc thinks, thumb hovering over Marco’s message until his eyes flit down the phone screen to the rest of his messages.

 

There’s an invitation from Claudio asking Marc to join him and his family dinner to dinner on Tuesday and another invitation from Jordi that looks mostly the same, save a car emoji and a question mark that he put at the start his message: _¿Cena? Willst du essen gehen?_

 

To his surprise, there are a few more messages like that from the rest of his teammates, including a not obviously Google-translated one from Ivan. They bring a small smile to his face that stays all the while he slowly types out his first reply.

 

_Hola, Claudio. Me encantaría conocer a tu familia…_

 

 

*

 

 

Leo’s practicing free kicks away from the group in an empty net when Marc approaches him.

 

“No goalkeeper?” Marc announces while he walks up to Leo, trying not to take him by surprise, but his well-intentioned gesture doesn’t help.

 

Leo’s starts at the sound of Marc’s voice, his run up before his kick thrown slightly off kilter, causing the ball to land outside the net. When he turns around to look at Marc, Leo’s expression is purposefully neutral. “Are you volunteering?” He asks, nonchalant, breaking Marc’s gaze to grab a ball from the small pile next to him ball to prepare for another kick.

 

Marc shrugs, his attempt to copy Leo’s indifferent masked hampered by the sound of the crossbar ringing as the ball slots into the goal from the far corner. “If you’re okay with me stopping all of them.”

 

The not-so subtle dare wipes the unsatisfied frown from Leo’s face, a mischievous smirk curls his lips when he takes his gaze away from the goal, the expression eerily similar to the look Xavi had in the morning after he watched a bottle of baby powder fall on Pique'a head after he opened his locker.

 

“Is that a challenge?” Leo taunts, arching his brow.

 

“It’s a promise.” Marc responds, throwing a cheeky wink over his shoulder as he jogs to the net.

 

There’s a faint, amused chuckle from somewhere close by, indicating that they had an audience. Marc doesn’t try and figure out who it is, focused on deciphering Leo’s determined expression to glean a hint at where he thought about kicking the ball.

 

 

*

 

 

“Hey, we meet again!” Rafinha calls, beaming to Marc from across the parking lot, sounding too jovial for someone who spent practice splitting his time between being chased around by Neymar and being made fun of by Adriano.

 

A blush unrelated to the team’s grueling practice blooms across Marc’s cheeks. He raises his hand to give Rafinha a short wave, before ducking his head.

 

“Going home?” Rafinha asks, sounding closer than he did a second ago.

 

Before Marc can reply, the dark pavement below his feet turns into muted olive-green grass below his feet. Marc missteps, nearly tripping over his own feet before someone steadies him.

 

“Woah.” It’s Rafinha’s hand on his hip. Marc stares at it for a few moments, trying to ground himself and figure out just what happened, except having Rafinha’s arm around his waist didn’t seem believable either. “Guess you’re really exhausted, huh?” Rafinha comments, meeting Marc’s embarrassed gaze with a concerned look.

 

“I’m fine,” Marc lies, forcing whatever dazed expression he had from his face, pushing whatever happened to him far from his mind not wanting to stress Rafinha out. “Thank you.”

 

Rafinha hums, pretending like he’s taking Marc’s comment into consideration before tightening his grip, making Marc lean more heavily on his side. “I don’t really believe you,” he teases, with a small smile that doesn’t entirely hide his worry. “How about we walk together?”

 

Really, Marc should protest. If anyone saw him walking to his car leaning heavily against Rafinha, they’d think he was injured. He really didn’t want to feign that he felt that the ground gave out from under him right after he saw Rafinha – as embarrassing as it was, it would be easier than telling the truth and would explain their, quite frankly, intimate position.

 

But, Marc didn’t want to. “You really don’t have to,” Marc objects, mostly for show, contradicting his forced bashfulness placing his arm securely across Rafinha’s shoulders.

 

Rafinha flashes Marc a real smile at the gesture, It’s no problem.”

*

 

 

By the time Marc finds a cable, his phone’s at one percent after spending the night wedged between his couch cushions.

 

 

 

> YOU HAVE 3 VOICEMAILS

 

He skips the first message, a weeks old voicemail from Marco that Marc still hasn’t figured out how to reply. The next one’s from his mother, who spends most of the time chastising him for his use of the generic voicemail message, _“It’s a good thing I memorized your number Marc-Andre. What if one of your friends called and didn’t know it was you?”_

 

 

> _“YOU HAVE ONE MESSAGE FR–”_

The phone’s standard introductory phrase abruptly cuts off to give way to loud static, making Marc jump in surprise, nearly dropping his phone in the process. It’s almost like he changed the dial on an AM radio, a loud, gritty, analogue sound, decades out of place. It stops after a few seconds, though the noise sounded too intense for his recently repaired phone, even if all he had replaced was a cracked screen – one of the victims to Dani’s improvised samba class after practice.

 

Marc doesn’t have long to think about the strange occurrence before the automated voice speaks again, informing him that he has a message from _GERARD PIQUÉ_. Milan’s cries ring loudly through the speaker, nearly hitting a glass-shattering frequency before Gerard’s harried voice interrupts his son’s wails, begging Marc to come baby sit so he could go out on a proper date night with Shakira.

If the static happens again, Marc’ll go back to the store and get a refund for his repairs, apparently an unexpected hidden cost to a non-official colored screen replacement and breaking his warranty. Right now, Marc had a friend in need.

 

_“Hola, Gerard. ¿Hola? ¿Aló? ¿Hola— Milan?”_

 

 

*

 

 

Claudio’s signaling for the team to move back, ready to lick the ball long into the midfield, away from Sevilla’s pressure. The stadium’s nearly vibrating in anticipation, still buzzing from Messi’s brace and another broken record, Telmo Zarra’s the latest to fall.

 

Marc watches the ball arc neatly to the center of the field, when the sky suddenly turns violet. Rakitić chests the ball down onto the Camp Nou turf, grass glowing an ominous bright teal.  He’s probably imagining it, the crowded midfield with translucent figures standing around waiting for Ivan’s pass.

 

When the ball lands at Dani’s feet, the illusion fades.

 

 

*

 

 

Leo shows up to his house, greeting Marc with “Can I hide here?” leaving a confused and flustered Marc to simply nod in response, caught off guard.

 

Marc’s making his way back into the living room where Leo’s been setting up FIFA while he got some water for them to drink.

 

“I didn’t know you preferred ice with your water, Leo.” Marc can’t remember the last time he used his ice maker. He thinks he used it the last time his family came over after his father commented on the “frivolous” purchase.

 

“Yeah, I—” Leo cuts himself off after the lights on the living room start flickering.

 

It’s all the warning that Marc gets before the music cuts out on the television and gives away to loud static, the screen turning into a mess of black and white pixels. Marc flinches but the way his lights flicker back on a bright neon blue instead of their usual white, the ice clinking against the glass announcing his fright to Leo.

 

Like the last time, the whole ordeal only lasts for a few seconds and it’s gone before Marc can ask Leo if he knows what’s going on.

  

Leo stares at the television for a few seconds, brow furrowed, looking mildly concerned. In the meantime, Marc to tries to school his expression into something less terrified and more scared, willing his heartbeat to return to a normal rate. Leo turns around to face Marc, brow raised. “You have ghosts, Marc?” 

 

The joke’s too close to the truth for comfort. Marc musters up a glare thrusts the glass of water at Leo. “Not funny,” he grits, sitting down quickly to hide his trembling hands.

 

Leo still hasn’t started the game, even after Marc’s mostly calmed down from his slight overreaction – or, apparent overreaction, since Leo doesn’t know the context. Marc looks over to see what’s taken Leo so long when he catches Leo staring at him intently. Instead of apologizing, Leo breaks the moment by saying “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you, Marc,” punctuating his statement by crunching an ice cube. The sincerity of his statement makes Marc flush.

 

_“Ah-woooo. There’s a she wolf in the closet. Open up and—”_

 

The moment’s effectively broken. Leo turns back to the television, leaning forward to set his glass of water on the coffee table. “That’s Geri. Come on, let’s play so I have an excuse to ignore him.”

 

 

*

 

 

The crowd’s divided between cheers of encouragement and derisive boos. Agüero’s pointedly not looking in his direction, staring at the ball while the referee talks to some City players behind the at the edge of the box that were still arguing for a harsher punishment for the foul.

 

Behind Agüero, both Mascherano and Rafinha attempt to be helpful, pointing in opposite directions for Marc to dive to save the penalty kick.

 

It should be impossible, Above the roar of the crowd, Marc hears someone whisper in his ear. “Go right.”

 

The whistle blows.

 

Marc dives.

 

He saves the penalty.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s been a long couple of weeks for Marc. He constantly sees ghostly figures fading in and out of the pitch, weaving through the open spaces that their formations leave, seconds before Lucho tells them to tighten up their lines. He’s always on edge, sensing watchful eyes staring at him from the corner post, even when his teammates are attacking in rival team territory.

 

Behind him, Marc can make out the faint laughter of his teammates while they finish their laps. Marc’s managed to break away from the group, jogging a short distance away from where Gerard sounds to be trying to play some sort of prank on Munir.

 

He’s running alone, until he’s not.

 

The color doesn’t fade from day like it used to, so he gets no warning when his latest companions materialize on the pitch apart from the sound of more footsteps threading through the grass. Marc’s breath catches in his throat, close enough to the men ahead of him to make out various patterns of _blaugrana_ stripes.

 

Marc stumbles, much to the amusement of his teammates. “Okay, Marc?” Neymar calls out, between laughter, evidently noticing nothing out of the ordinary except Marc tripping over air.

 

“Fine,” he chokes out, even though he was far from it, now flanked by two unfamiliar players, close enough that Marc could hear them panting.

 

This had to be a figment of his imagination, or, at the very least, some unspoken side-effect to adjusting playing for Barcelona. Marc curls his hands into fists, though the action doesn’t help with his nerves – and resulting sweaty palms – as much as he would’ve wanted.

 

“Who are you?” Marc whispers, though it’s not his teammates teammate’s teasing that he’s afraid of; Masche’s always mumbling to himself about the state of their defense.

 

Both players jerk their heads to look at him, almost as if they were the ones surprised to hear Marc talking. Marc feels the ground give way below him and he slows down to a fast walk, not wanting to actually faceplant this time. They share a glance before looking at Marc again. He had the distinct feeling they were laughing at him, despite their perfectly indifferent expressions, not as stony-faced and inhuman as Marc first imagined.

 

“Ángel,” the one on his left says, pointing to his companion with a small twitch of his lips. A chill runs down Marc’s spine, but he tries to look unaffected as he nods at to “Ángel,” who greets him with a teasing two-fingered salute, before turning back to the other grey figure.

 

Marc’s not strong enough to stare down the man on his right, feeling like he was sweating through his kit, barely keeping his composure talking to players that his teammates just barely miss running into. He wasn’t expecting a response. “And you?” Marc asks, voice cracking at the end, throat dry.

 

The man’s timid smile turns mischievous. “Alcántara.”

 

At that, Marc freezes, eyes widening in surprise. “Wh—”

 

The figures wink out of existence and the words die on his throat. For a heartbeat, Marc’s alone and all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears.

 

Then, someone crashes into his back.

 

“Oops, sorry Marc.” Rafinha apologizes, hands resting on his shoulder blades. “I tripped.”

 

 

*

 

 

There’s a capped figure pacing the touchline that Marc can barely keep his eyes look away from. It’s easier than watching the score line, which showed Barcelona tying Madrid. At this distance, Marc can’t make out his face, but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s familiar.

 

The man flickers in and out of Marc’s field of vision a few times before reappearing in Barcelona’s the technical area. Marc winces when Lucho’s pacing brings him close enough to bump shoulders with the stranger. His sigh of relief at the man’s sudden disappearance the instant before Lucho made contact is loud enough to make Bartra look over at him in concern.

 

Given the crowd’s boos, a rival player had the ball, but that was the least of Marc’s worries. He wasn’t much more than a vague impression back then, but he’d been there, weaving in-between players, but, nonetheless he’d seen the man before loitering in the tunnel at the Bernabeú.

 

The only ghost Marc had seen on two different grounds.

 

 

*

 

 

 

> YOU HAVE 1 VOICEMAIL

 

It’s from Leo. He’s wondering if Marc wants to come over sometimes to watch a movie. “I have so many too in because I’m too indecisive to pick them out on my own.”

Then, there’s a beep. _“YOU HAVE—"_

 

Last Marc checked, his box had been cleared of all old messages, with Leo’s as the only new one. He takes his cellphone away from his ear, staring at the screen while his phone went through the motions of announcing another message.

 

_“ONE MESSAGE FR–"_

 

A loud crack of static interrupts the automated message, Marc’s phone screen flashing with a rainbow of colors before turning blank white. The static stops and then a small, tinny voice sounds from his speakers.

 

_“H-he-hello?”_

 

Marc’s about to reply until all the lights in the living room flicker off and the television turns on by itself.

 

Maybe he did have ghosts like Leo said. Strangely enough, Marc isn’t worried.

 

 

*

 

Paulino Alcántara’s always buzzing around the penalty box, waiting for another pass, apparently still bitter that Leo broke his record.

 

Even without numbers on most of their kits, Marc can distinguish the ghostly figures with washed out uniforms. It had been an awkward conversation with Rafinha, who still wouldn’t stop asking him about his sudden interests about the other Alcántaras that played for Barcelona. While it provided a nice cover for his situation, Marc’s not entirely comfortable with the fact that half the team thinks he’s interested in Rafinha’s brother. He should’ve asked Xavi, who, with his encyclopedic knowledge of the team’s history, pointed out that the legendary, though unrelated, striker Paulino Alcántara, played for Barcelona before the Civil War.

 

“Leo broke his goal scoring record last season, don’t you remember?” Xavi had looked surprised that no one seemed to remember, yet the only shocking thing was that he did, the considering all the records Leo had broken.

 

The museum visit had been a long time coming, but it was hard for Marc to come to terms with the fact that he might be seeing dead people.

 

And here he was, days – and one more FC Barcelona souvenir cup in his kitchen later –a win against Bayern Munich later. People were still milling around, making plans to celebrate. Marc had to deny Jordi and Pedro’s invitation to get drinks and Dani’s enthusiastic invitation to go out clubbing.

 

“Something on your mind, Marc?”

 

“Geri.” Marc grins, trying to tone down his jitters. Barcelona’s tour and museum didn’t mention anything the ghosts hanging out around the Camp Nou, but with a city as old as Barcelona, there had to be a few spirits somewhere.  He always saw them clearer at night, bright kits against a plum-colored sky. Marc got close enough to see the gold on Josep Samitier’s crest, when he went to go shake the Pep Guardiola’s hand. “How would one go about getting into the Camp Nou after they close?”

 

Geri doesn’t even try to his surprise, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “Um, wh—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Nevermind. Lemme ask Puyi.”

 

 

*

 

 

The sole flood light dimly illuminates the white lines on the field, the faint glow of flashlights dancing in the stands while guards made their rounds.

 

From where he’s sitting on the goal line, there’s almost an otherworldly feel to the Camp Nou, now rendered completely silent after a thunderous celebration over their side’s win. It’s the perfect atmosphere for what Marc needs, though it doesn’t stop the chill from running down his spine.

 

Marc draws his knees to his chest, resisting the urge to look down at his watch. Maybe he should have waited to come back closer to midnight, like Cinderella., since that’s the time when most illusions seem to break. He closes his eyes and lets out an earsplitting yawn. Hopefully, he could make it to midnight.

 

When he opens his eyes, there’s a man standing on the penalty spot. Marc didn’t hear him approach, but, given the turf’s sudden unearthly glow, it’s likely that he probably materialized there.

 

Marc scrambles to stand up, “What’s going on?” Marc asks, suddenly tongue-tied. It’s not the most eloquent question, but Marc wasn’t expecting to talk to this particular club legend.

 

The man who the Camp Nou was built for.

 

László Kubala.

  
“You are a goalkeeper, no?” Kubala asks, vaguely taunting tone, almost daring Marc to answer anything different. It’s a simple question that. For some reason, sounds vaguely cryptic.

 

Marc takes in Kubala’s tense posture, crossed arms and furrowed brows. Marc hesitates. “Yes, I’m a goalkeeper.”

 

“Un _portero_ ,” Kubala repeats, emphasizing the last word.

  
Marc has to bite his tongue before blurting out another yes. Kubala’s still staring at him, waiting.

 

He’s a goalkeeper. Guardameta. Arquero. Portero. Whatever you want to call it.

 

 _“Soy un portero.”_ Marc tries again, fighting the urge to raise the last syllable and make the word sound like a question.

 

Then it hits him.

 

Marc whips around to look at the net, now growing a white behind him. He’s always thought that the goal had some sort of inherent magnetism, something that drew players to defend it. He’d brushed it off as his own goalkeeper bias, but he should’ve known that there was something beyond it.

 

“A doorway,” Marc breathes, taking in the sight before him, goal posts humming with a supernatural power.

 

 

 

 *

 

 

 

 

 

**_Epilogue_ **

 

 

“Okay, Marc?”

 

 “I don’t think anyone’s okay, Andrés.” Marc responds after Andrés sits own next to him, nodding towards an extremely disheveled Lucho, who hadn’t looked so out of it since their game in Munich when he came on the plane looking like he spent the whole ninety minutes running his hands though his hair, almost as if he tried tearing it all off after the loss. It’s their last practice in Barcelona before they head to Berlin and everyone’s in a similar state of stress.

 

On the empty field, Kubala kicks the ball into a precise arch into the top corner of the net, a goal that even Masche couldn’t yell at the defense for letting through.

 

“Pepe Reina always used to try and scare Victor and me with stories about ghosts that haunted the Camp Nou.” Andrés states, breaking the silence that fell between them. “When I asked Victor about it, he just told me the job was a lot of pressure.” He shrugs, looking over at a now wide-eyed Marc. “If there are spirits with us, I just hope they’re on our side. It’d be nice to win another treble”

 

“You knew?” Marc splutters.

 

Andres shakes his head, a small smile gracing his features. “I thought Pepe was just trying to make Victor and me afraid of making the first team.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work alternatively titled: més que un porteria, una porta (lol) [Is the goal a doorway to another world? Well, considering the existence of "ghost goals"... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯]
> 
> I don't know why I'm writing so much in Spanglish recently, sorry! Ok so, in Spanish, there's like a few different ways to say _goalkeeper:_  
>  **guardameta:** Literally translates to "goalkeeper" (guarda - guard, meta - goal)  
>  **arquero:** from the word "arch," since the goal is sometimes called "el arco." It also means archer/bowman (rip Robin Hood/Justice metaphor)  
>  **portero:** literally "doorman." The phrase "saque de puerta" (lit. [take] away from goal) is another name for a goal kick, "saque de meta."
> 
>  
> 
> -[ Paulino Alcántara](https://www.fcbarcelona.com/club/history/card/paulino-alcantara) used to be FC Barcelona's top goalscorer until Messi broke his record in March of 2014. He's been the only Asian player to play for the club[ Here's an article](https://www.firstpost.com/blogs/who-was-paulino-alcantara-the-man-whose-record-messi-broke-1442373.html) with more information than's on the website! Also this one which explains where he got his nickname "Net Breaker"/ Rompe redes from!  
> -[Ángel](https://www.fcbarcelona.com/club/history/card/angel-arocha) // [Josep Samitier](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josep_Samitier) // [ László Kubala,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%C3%A1szl%C3%B3_Kubala) club legend & a driving force for building the Camp Nou. Barcelona used to play in Les Corts, now demolished, and I'd like to think if any spirits did hang out there, they'd just migrate to where the football's at.  
> -[ How Messi broke Telmo Zarra's record](https://www.si.com/soccer/video/2014/11/22/lionel-messi-telmo-zarra-la-liga-goal-soccer-mark-hat-trick)  
> -[ Marc saving Kun's penalty.](https://metro.co.uk/2015/03/19/javier-mascherano-tells-barcelona-goalkeeper-marc-andre-ter-stegen-which-way-to-dive-to-save-sergio-agueros-penalty-5110619/) I'm pretty sure that Marc said he just dove out of instinct, but I really think (and so do a lot of other people) he just looked at where Masche was pointing.  
> -[ Andrés + Goalkeepers = Love.](https://78.media.tumblr.com/f9ff073b2fc70139da2eff9c00ac8d2c/tumblr_p7wafn6pfn1slhv73o1_1280.jpg) Also, pretty certain he roomed with both Pepe Reina and Victor in La Masia!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanmix!
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it before I actually wrote the fic, so I hope it still fits. I tried keeping a cool, indie ~otherworldly~ vibe.
> 
> Also, fun fact, the background images for the edits are actually of Marc!
> 
> (the endnotes for this chapter are the same as the first, so, carry on.)

 

  

 

[Luna (8.11.14) - Zoé](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtKlwos6YOE)

//

[Ay de Ti - Reyno](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RQhX10wiwo)

//

[Last Night on Earth – Green Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xg_Y7Or_hWM)

//

[En Algún Lugar – Duncan Dhu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvDw0LXZCNI)

//

[Stolen Dance – Milky Chance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2EVWDaGI4I)

//

[Rise to the Sun – Alabama Shakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLHaIzcTWl4)

**Author's Note:**

> Work alternatively titled: més que un porteria, una porta (lol)  
> (Is the goal a doorway to another world? Well, considering the existence of "ghost goals"... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)
> 
> I don't know why I'm writing so much in Spanglish recently, sorry! Ok so, in Spanish, there's like a few different ways to say _goalkeeper:_  
>  **guardameta:** Literally translates to "goalkeeper" (guarda - guard, meta - goal)  
>  **arquero:** from the word "arch," since the goal is sometimes called "el arco." It also means archer/bowman (rip Robin Hood/justice metaphor)  
>  **portero:** literally "doorman." The phrase "saque de puerta" (lit. [take] away from goal) is another name for a goal kick, "saque de meta."
> 
> -[ Paulino Alcántara](https://www.fcbarcelona.com/club/history/card/paulino-alcantara) used to be FC Barcelona's top goalscorer until Messi broke his record in March of 2014. So far,he's been the only Asian player to play for the club.[ Here's an article](https://www.firstpost.com/blogs/who-was-paulino-alcantara-the-man-whose-record-messi-broke-1442373.html) with more information than's on the website! Also this one which explains where he got his nickname "Net Breaker"/ Rompe redes from!  
>  -[Ángel](https://www.fcbarcelona.com/club/history/card/angel-arocha) // [Josep Samitier](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josep_Samitier) // [ László Kubala,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%C3%A1szl%C3%B3_Kubala) club legend & a driving force for building the Camp Nou. Barcelona used to play in Les Corts, now demolished, and I'd like to think if any spirits did hang out there, they'd migrate to where the football's at.  
> -[ How Messi broke Telmo Zarra's record.](https://www.si.com/soccer/video/2014/11/22/lionel-messi-telmo-zarra-la-liga-goal-soccer-mark-hat-trick)  
> -[ Marc saving Kun's penalty.](https://metro.co.uk/2015/03/19/javier-mascherano-tells-barcelona-goalkeeper-marc-andre-ter-stegen-which-way-to-dive-to-save-sergio-agueros-penalty-5110619/) I'm pretty sure that Marc said he just dove out of instinct, but I really think (and so do a lot of other people) he just looked at where Masche was pointing.  
> -[ Andrés + Goalkeepers = Love.](https://78.media.tumblr.com/f9ff073b2fc70139da2eff9c00ac8d2c/tumblr_p7wafn6pfn1slhv73o1_1280.jpg) Also, pretty certain he roomed with both Pepe Reina and Victor in La Masia!


End file.
